But I was able to walk around my street in shorts and bare feet this morning while walking the dog and I have the spring onions and daffodils sprouting in the backyard.
There's no end in sight for the unseasonably warm weather either.
I've always liked winter, the eye-watering snap of the cold air, the crunch of the ground under my feet when I walk across it, even the way the dry air makes my lungs slightly ache during a deep freeze. I stand still and quiet out in the swirling snowstorm to surround myself with the hushed brightness, a soft blanket of diamonds falling from the sky, sledding down the big hills on our giant yellow plastic disc, falling into the deep banks and getting buried by my kids.
Winter is a good excuse to build a roaring fire and make Irish coffee to sip while sitting snug under a blanket and read a book. It feels like a waste to build a fire when it's 40 degrees outside.
People keep telling me that I lucky there's no snow and I should be grateful for the warm weather. If I wanted warm weather I would move South and live in Georgia or Florida. I want my kids to know snow, to live in it, chase it, to really feel the changing of the seasons in their bones; a primal clock that teaches them about the passage of time.
This weather we have now does nothing but frustrate me.
